heaven's in the half-light
by prouvaires
Summary: "A whiskey and a wry smile - I check my vital signs." (Frank Turner) -— drabble series, beginning with Jane/Lisbon


**a/n**: I've decided to start a Mentalist drabble collection to put my errant muse somewhere. Pairings/characters will be noted at the top of each chapter (I tend to like unpopular pairings, so be warned in advance and please don't expect fifty chapters of Jane/Lisbon followed by fifty chapters of Rigsby/Van Pelt) along with any prompts and/or dedications.

**pairing**: Jane/Lisbon  
**prompt**: seven deadly sins  
**for**: tromana for the Paint It Red Stocking Exchange '12, from whom the prompt also comes.

* * *

tense with devotion  
_and while you were scheming, the silver, the sheets_ –— while we were dreaming, the pink mountaintops

* * *

"Vainglory."

The word is only half a whisper, spoken in the darkness. For several long seconds afterwards, she is not sure that it was even said at all. But she doesn't think she would conjure something like that up at random, so she breathes out and takes the plunge.

"What?"

There is a soft sigh, a rustle of sheets, a long silhouette moving against the moonlight.

"Sinful pride," he explains quietly, the words still barely more than an exhalation of breath, "Associated with arrogance, egotism, conceitedness. Before Pope Gregory it was the eighth Deadly Sin."

After that non-explanation, silence falls between them again. Lisbon shifts under the covers, turning her head to gaze over at Jane's bed, at the man there lying on his back, gazing up at the ceiling with what she is sure is a contemplative expression, though she cannot see it in the darkness.

She breathes in and out four times, slowly, before she speaks again.

"What about it?"

There is a long quiet from the occupant of the second bed. So long, in fact, that Lisbon is half-convinced he's asleep again—if he ever was—preserving his energy for the latter part of his grand plan (the first part of which involves the two of them sharing this grotty motel room, for which she's sure there will be a good explanation at a later date. Maybe).

But then, "We have it," he says.

When she looks over, the moonlight is showing up his smile.

"Who?" she presses, rolling onto her side, frown creeping in.

His head turns, smile roving in her direction.

"Red John and I," he replies, and she's not sure she likes that that smile's still there, "Both of us. We have it."

Lisbon lets the silence settle for longer this time. Jane, in this sort of mood, is not to be hurried. (When she stops to think about it, it's sort of pathetic that she can read his mood in the tone of his voice and the way he decides to smile.)

"And?" she prompts eventually, one hand moving to pillow her cheek, her gaze still fixed on his silhouette. He takes even longer to reply this time, his head lolling back to face the ceiling, his smile disappearing to be replaced by a small quiet frown.

Finally, he says, "It defeated me. So I think—I think it could defeat him."

More silence. It's becoming a bit of a pattern here. Not willing to let this one fester, Lisbon lets her curiosity rule and demands, "How?" in a tone louder than Jane would evidently like, because he shushes her impatiently. When she has finished glaring and he has finished trying not to laugh, he turns abruptly serious again.

"I'm not sure yet," he admits, that frown moving back in, "But it will. It has to."

Lisbon sighs and flops back onto her front, burying her face in the pillow to blot out the tiny amount of light. She allows her sigh to be her response, and she knows Jane has understood from the little chuckle that comes from his bed. She hears the quiet rustle of his sheets as he rolls over, can see the wall of his back without even having to look.

"Goodnight, Lisbon," he says softly, and against the back of her eyelids she watches him smile as he shuts his eyes, enjoying some private Jane joke she's ninety percent sure she'll never be allowed to share.

"Goodnight, Jane," she replies eventually, her voice muffled by the pillow. As she falls asleep, she tries not to think about Jane, and mostly succeeds. Sort of.


End file.
